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~~~ ‘ * ‘ - ~ T* B j - *m.m\ ■-= •■ "*■* ■ .in ■>>.^,.i— l , V 1 wim >*-^ r rvjll “• •** r ■” VOLUME I. | BY C. R. HANLEITER. P ©H ¥ IS Y „ “ Muck yet remains unsung For the “ Southern Miscellany THE LAMENT. I saw a father silting where His infant daughter long Bad slept; Night’s veil of darkness often there Secreted eyes that wept; And in a wailing, plaintive tone, Thus sad and mournfully he sung. I’ve pulled away the weeds that grew Too close above thy lowly head, And broke the wilder boughs that threw Their shadows o’er thy bed— That shining from the “ far South-West” The sun-beams might “rejoice thy rest.” It was a weary, weary road That led me to this distant spot ; And may’s! thou in thy sweet abode Meet there a blissful, happy lot— Where everlasting beauty lies, A peaceful dwelling in the skies! Yet often to thy haunted grave Thy infant thoughts will Eastward stray, To Him who sits where thou wert laid • And weeps the hours away; 0 But almost enn his grief lorget To think that thou dost love him yet! J.L Savannah, Cctohcr 31, 1813. ©[fU© OKI AIL TALE. For the “ Southern Miscellany.” THE DOOMED MAIDEN, OR TIIE VICTIM OP SUPERSTITION-. A Frontier Slietch. It was towards the close of a stormy November day in the year 18 —, that 1 found myself wending my way among the hills and valleys of the mountainous region of Georgia, on a journey to one of the frontier counties, where I had some professional business to transact, the imperative nature of which alone induced me to undertake such a trip at that inclement season of the J’ear. The shades of evening were fast approach ing, when I was more than delighted at see ing the blue smoke curling up against the lowering horizon, some distance ahead, hut in the direction of my road. I was more than delighted—for, besides being wet, cold and hungry, this was the only house I had seen for several miles, and I had began to fear that I might he under the necessity of passing the night in the woods without a shelter from the rapidly increasing storm. I was too well acquainted with mountaineer’s fair to promise myself very elegant accom modations at the little cottage which 1 could hut just distinguish near the base of a lofty peak ; but a roasted potatoe and a blanket by a good lightwood fire was preferable to a “ cold snack” and a damp moss bed ; and I determined to impose myself upon its in mates as a guest for the night, if there was so much persuasion in my purse. I might have remarked an air of neatness about the spot, had I been in a vein lor ob servation, hut 1 rode slowly up to the little enclosure before the door, dismounted, and had begun to remove my saddle, when an elderly woman made her appearance at the door, whose benevolent countenance and matronly air, seemed to reproach me for rny rudeness. With an awkward apology for my intrusion I solicited’ the hospitality” of her house for the night, which she readi ly granted. “ Walk in, sir, out of the rain,” said she, “ and I will send a servant to take care of your horse.” Relinquishing my faithful animal to the charge of a little negro, I followed into the dwelling. The supper table occupied the cen tre of the floor, and, as I entered, a young girl of about sixteen rose modestly from her seat by the fire, which the old lady desired me to occupy. I was at once struck with thepolite bearingof the two females, as well as the airof neatness and comfort which was in those days, so seldom met with in the wild region through which I was travelling; and while 1 endeavored to thank them for their kindness and hospitality, I inly felicitated my self that I had fallen upon such quarters for the night, A good supper was soon served, and af ter partaking of a hearty meal, I again drew my chair to the hearth, where a blazing lightwood fire dispensed its cheering rays, and under the influence of whose genial warmth I soon forgot the inclemency to which I had been exposed during the day. After the removal of the supper table, Twas joined by the little family, which, I soon learned, consisted of the old lady, a soft and daughter, the former about fourteen and the latter about sixteen years of age. Feel ing a growing desire to learn something of the history oi the family, whom it was quite evident from their deportment, had seen better days, and had, doubtless, moved in different society from that which is usually to be met with upon the frontier settlements, I endeavored to draw the old lady, who was engaged in repairing some of her son’s ap parel, into conversation. “It is a lonely place this, madam, in which you live, and I must coufess that I little expected to meet with such a family in this wild region. You have not long re aided here I” Jfcctoapaucr : Ecfcotetr to iLUerKture, &firicultuve, JHecftantnf, smtcatCon, ifore fan domestic luteUf&ttur, #c. “ It is now about five years since my poor husband sought this place of seclusion for himself and little family,” replied she, and as she spoke a deep sigh came tip from the deeps of her heart, which informed me bet ter than words that she was no stranger to sorrow. “ Your husband is dead, then,” I rejoih ed. •’ Yes, sir—he could never survive the loss of fortune and the treachery of friends; and though he sought relief in seclusion, his constitution gradually failed until he left me and his little orphans for a tatter world. It is now two yeurs since he died.” As she uttered the last words her voice became choked with emotion, and her eyes filled with tears; and as I cast my eye up on the lovely girl by her side, I observed her lay her hand gently upon her mother’s arm as she cast her large soft eye affection atelv to her face, and the tears trickled down her blushing cheeks. I could not hut feel the deepest sympathy for their bereavement, and though I would willingly have learned more of their history, I determined to for bear t|uestioning farther upon a subject which could not fail to harrow up recollec tions and scenes of painful interest, in the minds of my worthy hostess and her affec tionate daughter. “None may judge of the dispensations of Providence,” I remarked, after a pause. “ Human wisdom may not scrutinize His decrees, and often are we led to marvel at what we do not understand in the divine policy, when, perhaps, if we were permit ted to look into the unknown future, our murmurings would he turned to rejoicings by what our weak judgments bad viewed as the direst calamities. They are happiest who place the greatest reliance upon the infinite goodness of God, and who receive his chast ening with humble submission.” “ Oil, yes, sir, Ido not murmur. God is good to me and my little orphans—l do not murmur—hut my heart will throb and the tears will stait to my eyes when I think of the past —of him who was ever so kind to me and his dear children. But his acliingheart is at rest, and they cannot wound his noble spirit now that lie is in the grave. Do not weep my child,” she continued, laying her hand upon the head of her daughter whose face was nestled in her lap, “you have a father who will never forget the orphan or widowed while we love and serve him.” With as much delicacy as possible I en deavored to change the conversation to sub jects of general interest, and after a little time the gloom which had just brooded over our little circle gradually gave place to so cialcheerfulness; and as I succeeded in draw ing the daughter into conversation, I readi ly discovered in her traits of character which won upon my esteem to such a degtee that I already began to entertain for her the warmest sentiments of friendship. I found her unusually intelligent for her age, and what rendered her still more lovely, in my estimation, was the total absence of every thing like affectation or vanity. As we sat round the cheerful fire, which ever and anon was replenished with light wood, the storm increased without. The chill wind came sweeping from the moun tain gaps in blustering gusts —the rain des cended upon the roof with an incessant rumbling sound, or heat furiously against the casement, as some fresh torrent of wind spent its force against the little dwelling.— Occasionally a vivid flash of lightning il lumined the pitchy darkness, and was suc ceedeiHiy a Imirl peel of Thunder, which reverberated among the distant hills, until lost in the howling of the blast. During one of the intervals of calm a O loud knocking was heard at the door. 1 observed a deep blush sufftice the cheek of the beautiful Ada, as she rose to open the door, and as she glided past her mother she whispered in a soft voice, ” It must he Henry !” On the door being opened, a form ofdoubt ful gender leaning upon a tall staff stepped upon the threshold. “ Why it’s pooroldAutit Sally!” exclaim ed the shrinking girl, in a tone between dis appointment and surprise. “Come in, Aunt Sally, out of the cold and wet,” she con tinued. “ Poorold creature,” murmured the moth er; “ come to the fire, Aunt Sally—why, what could have brought you out on such a night ?” The woman still stood in the door, while the girl urged her to come in. Slow ly raising herself upon her staff she exposed to the glare of the fire one of the most hag gard and ghastly countenances that I had ever beheld. Her sallow cheeks were shrivelled to the hone, with scarce flexibility enough to admit of a wrinkle—her long sharp nose arid pointed chin seemed to meet over her thin bloodless lips, and from her dark hollow sockets beamed an eye of strange lustre, while a single lock of coarse grey hair, which protruded from beneath her hat directly in front, gave the finish to the un earthly aspect of her features. A ragged chip hat was hound upon her head with a large shawl or handkerchief, and a bundle of rags were twisted round her neck. A tattered coat of janes, which had once been the property of the other sex, hong upon her shoulders, and a coarse ragged skirt, of various colors and figures of patchwork, completed ber attire. After casting a pene trating glance around the room,she exclaim ed in a cracked voice, and broken aoccnt, MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 12, 1842. “ God bless ye—God bless all the good people,” and then with a slow and tottering step she drew near the fire. She was point ed to a low chair in the corner, where she drew her drenched garments around her shrivelled form, and extended her skinny hands to the fire. Dry clothes were offered, but she would not accept them. Well knowing her favorite beverage, the young girl tendered her a cup of strong tea, with other refreshments, which she received with out remark, and after satisfying her appe tite, she drew herself again close into the corner, and covered her face in her rags, muttering to herself, “God bless the darlint—she's always kind to pore old Sally, and old Sally’ll put her dying blessing on the so she will.” The strange appearance of the woman, and her apparent destitution excited my cur iosity to know who or what she was.— I learned from the lady of the bouse that she had no relations in the settlement, but had since the time of her first making her appearance among them, been in the habit of wandering from place to place in the manner she visited her house, and that tho’ she professed the art of fortune-telling, and occasionally procured a few shillings in that ! way from the young people, she was mainly j indebted for her support to the charity of the neighbors, who, as they knew nothing had of her, never refused her a shelter and food. “ She is a very strange woman,” contin | ued my informant, “preferring to roam from place to place, rather than accept, for any considerable time, the hospitality ofher ac quaintances. She has often come to my house at the dead of midnight, and in the morning before light she would take herde ; parture without the knowledge of arty of ! the family. Some think she is crazed, and | indeed no one can understand her. She ! sometimes lives for months in the woods, j and when all suppose her dead she will make her appearance, when little expected, | and depart, perhaps, as suddenly and as I strangely as she came.” “ Poi-e old Sal,” murmured the oldoroao, ; who seemed not to hear or heed what the I lady was saying of her ; “ no one gives any 1 thing to old Sal. But she has a home a long way off—a long way off—Laws ha’ massy upon pore old Sal.” “ Site says she has a home,” continued my kind hearted hostess, “ but whether she has indeed a home, or whether it is but a vain fancy of her disturbed mind, no one can tell.” With the double purpose of patronising the miserable old creature, and with a view of enlivening the few hours till bed time, 1 proposed that she should tell our fortunes. “ Come, Aunt Sally,” said I, “ brighten up, now—here’s a silver dollar for you to tell us our fortunes.” My hostess declined having her fortune told, remarking that she did not believe in fortune-telling. “ Nor I,” replied I, “ which is the reason why I make the proposition—l have not a shadow of faith in any human fortune-teller, or 1 would be very loath indeed to patron ize them. What say you, Miss Ada, do you believe in Aunt Sally’s art 1” “Ma says I must not believe in such nonsense, hut I think Aunt Sally tells very true sometimes.” “ Well, we must have a trial of her skill to-night,” I jocosely remarked, as I extend ed the dollar towards the old sybil, who reached forth her shrivelled hand to grasp it, while her haggard features assumed a ghastly smile. “ BlesS ye, sir, I will run my cards for you. But why need old Sally try the child’s luck ? Bless her, every body in the settle ment can tell her fortune—for isn’t she to he married, day after to-morrow to Henry W ilberton ? apd isn’t he the handsomest youth and the hast in all the country. Bless the pair o’ them, they was born for other— and they’ll he happy, so they will. Ye needn’t hide yer pretty face child. The gentleman knows old jSally’s speakin the truth.” Then, after caressing and playing with the ringlets of the blushing girl, who had drawn a chair between the woman and j her mother, who sat gazing thoughtfully in- I to the fire, she essayed to produce the book ‘ of fate from which she was to read our ties- j tiuies. After removing several dirty enve lopes, a pack of well worn car ds rolled • p on her lap. While the old woman was preparing her self for the exercise of her mystic art, I learned from the lady of tho house that wlrat she had said in relation to her daugh ter’s marriage was true. “ I am to lose her soon,” said the old la dy, in a thoughtful tone, “ but I console myself with the thought that she is about to bestow her hand upon one who is worthy the affections of her heart.” “ Day after to-morrow night ? Should the weather continue,” I replied, “ I may have the pleasure of attending the wedding.— What say you, Miss Ada ? Will you not give me an invitation “ Oh, certainly, sir,” said the blushing girl, as she threw back her flowing ringlets, while the crimson tinge of her lovely fea tures taspoke her native modesty. “ It may rain, then—for I love a wedding —besides, I wish to see the happy Henry who is to be enriched by tho possession of such a treasure. If I should be disappoint- ed in him, I do not know hut I should be . induced to forbid the bans, such is tire grow ing interest which I confess I feel for your welfare. He should be a proper fellow now to possess such ” | “ Oh, sir, I know you’ll like him—he’s ] so good, so generous—every body likes j Henry.” I I was about to unbosom still further the deep interest, which almost amounted to affection,for the little family in whose socie ty chance had thrown me so unexpectedly, when the old woman in the corner attracted my attention by drawing the two ends of her dirty pastboards through her bony fin gers with a rattling sound, at the same time | that she announced that she was ready to open the hook of fate, with an air of gravi ty that illy comported with the practice of such mummery, and which forced from me an undisguised laugh. “Do not laugh, sir—l can tell a true for tune to them as believe. But if you doubt —theft all is dark, and I cannot read what the cards say.” “Faith, then, is at the bottom of your art. Well, then tell Afiss Ada’s fortune first, and if you tell her a good one, perhaps, I can believe better.” Turning to the girl she bade her cut the cards three times. Ada made the first cut —as she drew tta cards towards her, one fell from her hand into her lap. The sybil seized it, and as she raised it to the light a shudder ran through the frame of the terri fied girl, and the cards dropped from the hand of the fortune-teller, who covering her face with her hands muttered in a hollow tone, “ Death !” while her whole frame shook with violent agitation. “Oh, mother—my dream!” exclaimed the trembling girl, throwing one arm round her mother’s neck, and burying her ashy face in her bosom. “ Poor child,” sighed her mother, “how often have I told you not to place any con fidence in Aunt Sally’s foolishness. Come, be calm now—’tis utterly ridiculous to be lieve such nonsense. “ Mother, it was the death card that flew into my lap—and then my dream—oh, that fearful dream,” replied the terrified girl, bursting into a flood of tears. I had sat in silent amazement for some moments, exceedingly mortified that I should have thoughtlessly introduced a matter which had given rise to so much alarm oil the part of the girl, and consequently so much painful anxiety in the mind of her mother. The old croan, after hastily re placing the cards in her wallet, had drawn her form close into the corner, and sat mo tionless and silent. 1 endeavored to relieve the poor girl’s mind from the gloomy appre hensions which the event had occasioned, assuring her that neither Aunt Sally nor her cards could foretell our destinies—that her faith in such mystic nonsense was merely the result of a childish superstition which her good sense should teach her to over come. But argument was in vain, and nei ther her mother nor myself could dispel the gloom which enveloped her thoughts for the balance of the evening. Bed time having arrived, an old negro woman entered to spread me a paiate be fore the fire ; after which the fortune-teller in moody silence accompanied her to the kitchen, and the lady of the house and her daughter bidding me good night retired to their room. Being weary I soon embraced the comfortable quarters assigned me, and in a brief time was dreaming of homo. I arose on the following morning after a refreshing sleep. The storm had some what abated, hut the wind was still high, and the heavy black masses of clouds that were dragging lazily over the mountain peaks, totally obscuring the rising sun, in dicated that the elements were only gather ing for another deluge. After visiting my horse, at the little mill which stood perhaps some two hundred yards from the house, in company with the son of my hostess, a like ly little fellow who was already astir and attending to the duties assigned him, I re turned to the cottage. The lady and her daughter were up, the former busied in aid ing and directing in the preparation of the morning meal. The daughter was gazing out of the window at the little creek, that, swollen by the recent rains, came leaping impetuously from the mountain gorge, and chafing with its banks, which it now filled to the top, passed on to the little mill, where, after leaping the dam, it was lost amid the jutting rocks and over-arching branches of the trees that skirted its meandering shores. To my morning salutation she replied in a subdued tone, and as she turned, I thought her face was even more lovely than when 1 first beheld it. There was an air of pensive sadness about her countenance that almost startled me, and at once recalled to my mind the scene of the past evening. I thought to rally her, and dissipate, if possible, the sad forebodings which seemed to oppress her mind. “ Why, Miss Ada,” said I, “ you should be all smiles to-day, so near your wedd'trg. 1 fear you are jealous of your lover's ab sence, hut you need not he, for, l know, he would travel far before he would find a fair er face.” A crimson blush Suffused her cheeks and neck, hut no word escaped her lips, “ When is he to come 1” I inquired. “ To-morrow—he .cannot cotne before,” replied the blushing girl. “ And you are dying to seo him"- I was continuing, in a strain of playful rail lery, when I observed her downcast eyes fill with tears, and a heavy sigh escaped her parting lips, as in a scarce audible whis]>er she said, “Oh, I hope I may see him again.” The words, the tone, the manner in which she spoke, indicated the settled dread of some awfli! calamity whh.li rom<l upwi hcr mind, and though pained to witness ber stif fening, from what I regarded only as an idle superstition, I knew not how to remove it. Just then her mother entered, to whom I re marked, “ I have been trying to persuade Miss Ada to be cheerful this morning. But it seems some mysterious fear has been excit ed in her mind by the mummeries of that old woman, which renders her extremely unhappy.” “ Yes, sir, I am very uneasy about her. She did unt close her eyes last night, hut sobbed and sighed as if she would break ber heart. It mortifies me to see her so supeistitious.” “ Mother, l am not superstitious, but 1 feel that something sad is about to hoppeu. Night before last 1 dreamed that I saw Henry, dressed all in white, standing upon the hank of a wide and angry river that ran between us, and last night the death card fell in my lap.” “ Nonsense,” I remarked, almost petu lently ; “ when your waking ami sleeping thoughts are so constantly dwelling upon the object of your affections, it is not at all strange that fancy, in her wild vagaries, should present him in a thousand positions and in as many garbs. And the cards— why, if any other piece of pasteboard had fallen ftom the old woman’s hand, l should have regarded it equally as ominous.” “ Oh, sir,” said the now weeping girl, “1 cannot shake off the dreadful fear that op presses me. That dream so like my poor father’s, and that ugly card ,” and her words were choked with sobs. “Why, Ada, do not he so foolish, my child —do not think tqpre about it —Henry will Ire here to-morrow, and it will break his heart to find you in such a state of mind.” At breakfast I endeavored by every ar gument to convince her how ridiculous it was to put faith in such prognostics of fate ; assuring her that if we were to heed all the various signs and indications of destiny that are regarded as infallible by the supersti tious and ignorant, we would ever be in constant dread. Every tree that put forth Irlossoms out of season, every insect that ticked in the wall would foretell our deaths, and a thousand other things equally as tri vial and common, would indicate some of the numerous ills that flesh is heir to. After some time the poor girl succeeded in drying up her tears, but all the argument or persuasion 1 could invent did not effect ually dispel the melancholy of her thoughts. The storm had almost entirely cea.-ed, but as the ally was still over cast with heavy clouds, and as it was more than probable that the water courses were impassable, I gladly accepted the invitation of my kind hostess to remain an inmate of her house at least for the uay. The time till noon passed pleasantly off in conversation and in perus ing some old hooks with which the daughter supplied me. I learned that Mr. Burgess (for such was the family name) had remov ed to the frontier from one of the southern commercial cities—that he had been a mer chant of handsome property, but meeting with misfortune, and suffering much perse cution, thruugh the treachery of pretended friends, he had sought seclusion from the world upon a small farm iti this wild region. Henry YVilbertnn, the young man, who was to ho wedded to Ada on the following day, was a yotltli who had been brought up in tho Family. Being an orphan, he had been taken at a veiy early age hv Mr. Burgess, by whom he was sent to school, until he had acquited the rudiments*of an English edu cation. When misfortune came upon the family, and they were compelled to forego the luxuries which they had enjoyed, their generous protegee was desirous of sharing with them their poverty as he hail partici pated iu their wealth, and insisted upon ac companying them to their new home, where by his labor he might make some return for the kindness of his benefactors. ” Since the death of my husband,” said Mrs, Burgess, “ Henry has been nil a son could he to a mother; indeed he lius.hee.ri our protection and support. By h : s indus try arid management our little farm has been made to yield us u comfortable sujrport. I know his noble qualities—and were my daughter worth the dowry of it princess, I feel I could not better bestow her hand.” ” l must stay to this wedding,” said I, “ I delight above all things to see the hap piness of others, and 1 know Miss Ada will he happy when tho lover of her mother’s choice leads her to the altar.” No acknowledging smile illumined that lovely face, hut a deep blush rested upon her cheeks, while her eyes, pensive and sad in their expression, wore bent steadfastly up on the volume which she held in her hand. “ Come, Ada,” said the mother, “ you that were always so joyous and gay to be so sad. Do cheer up, my child, for my sake. Give over this gloom. It is sinful to put such faith in dreams. See, the clouds are broken up and the rain Iras ceased—goout, dear, ami take the air—go, you and your brother William, and gather some chestnuts j NUMBER 33. ——— W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. —the storm has blown them out, and the ; exercise and fresh air will do you good.” “Yes, sister,” said the boy, “I know where the ground is covered—let us go and | gat her some.” Ada rose from her seat, and throwing on a cottage bonnet, and taking in her hand a small basket, acocptcd Bor uuloti. After Urey timt passed out, I picked up the volume she had just relinquished, which proved to be a small bible, upon the fly leaf of which was written, in a manly hand, “ To Ada Burgess, from Henry Wil herton.” Alter a few words with the lady upon , the strange melancholy of her daughter, I i took my lint and stepped out with a view of ; visiting my horse, as well as to inhale the j fresh air. After visiting the stable, which stood near the mill, where 1 found my horse | in fine condition and well provided for, I sauntered about in the vicinity for some lime, observing tho little improvements which had before escaped my attention, tho picturesque scenery of the place, and the tur bid stream, which, swollen to excess, now dashed impetuously against its rugged banks, as if it scorned its narrow’confines. Turning fmm the mill, I sauntered slowly up the hank, my hands lazily thrust into my pock ets, and my head drooped in contemplation, or occasionally thrown up to observe the prospect. Once 1 raised my eyes and beheld Adaand her brother standing near the hank, some distance above—it was but a glance.and again my eyes were lowered to the ground, as I thought of the cruel superstition thst had haunted her young mind during the past night and day. I had just resolved to ap proach her and endeavor once more to win her thoughts from the gloomy forebodings which oppressed her, and was arrong i ing in my mind an interpretation of her dream to suit my purpose, ivheu a loud scream broke upon my ear. “Oh, mother! oh, my sister 1 my sistei!” Quick as thought I cast my eye in the : direction, where hut a moment before 1 had seen Ada and her brother. She was gone, andthe hoy was running,screaming,towards me. With desperate speed I hastened to the spot. “Oh, save rny sister! save my sistei!” ! groaned the poor hoy, in a voice faint with terror. 1 was enabled to gain hut a single glimpse of her dress, as she was whirled a way in the circling eddies of theangry stream, and ere I had divested myself of my heavy clothing i all traces of her were gone. Terrified be yond the exercise of reason, I plunged iu, and was tarne rapidly down the furious current. In vain I endeavored to discover the body of the drowning girl. Taking re fuge upon some driftwood, I eagerly cast my eyes in every direction in the hope that : she might yet rise to the surface. But it ; was not until alter the lapse of several min utes, and until a portion of the bank giving way, dislodged and loosened the whole float ing mass upon which I was resting, that I discovered her, entangled in some brush wood, which composed a portion of the raft. With great exertion I succeeded in recover j ing her lifeless form and bearing it to the j shore. The cries of the youth had brought the ; wretched mother to the spot. She arrived just as I emerged from the water with her lifeless daughter. Running to meet me she grasped her child in her arms—such a look , as that with which she regarded her, I never i before saw depicted in any human features | —with the rapidity of thought her hand gli ded from the heart to the mouth, then to the wrist until she discovered all signs of life were extinct, when she sank upon the ground with her lovely corpse iu ber arms exclaim ing. “ Dead !—dead !—oh, my dear child is dead 1” I was but little acquainted with the pro cess usually adopted to resuscitate drowned persons, but with a word of encouragement to the mother and brother to hope for her recovery, w ith the assistance of the old ne gro woman I put in lequisiliun such means as our opportunities would allow—but all in vain ; all the friction, rolling and jolting, and other means we could employ, brought no pulse, no signs of returning life—and we ■ bore her to the house a corpse, in the bloom | ami flush of youthful beauty. ; No words can describe tho grief of that i little family, and never in my life do I re member to have witnessed .a scene so pain ! fully touching—that heart must have been calotts indeed, that could have.regarded such a scene of domestic affliction without parti cipating in the deep, heart-rending sorrow i which it had occasioned, and I wept as ona ! who had lost the object of his loug cherish ed affection. But that poor widowed moth er—the pride and joy of her house bad been snatched from ber in the hour of her bright est hope; the dear object of her love-—her heart’s idol had been suddenly torn from ber by the ruthless hand of death. Sudden as the lightning's gleam had come the dread summons, and yet iuthatdarkest bnur ofher woe, the Christian spirit of meek submission shone beautifully forth. In all the wild par oxysms of her despair — in all he grief in spired eloquence of the mother’s heart, not one murmur escaped her lips—but even as she bent weeping over the loved form ofher still beautiful Ada, she could say—” Thy will be done.” It was approaching toward# cvcaiug, gjvd